Purgatory, the one place where everything feels despondent. Void of the pleasures, distractions and anguish. Blank white space.

Vocal-less.

Deaf.

Mundane.

Just floating.

Pretending to exist.

I can’t stand it, but I can’t stand to leave it, either. Real life contains the unknown, and that’s just as terrifying as anything.

Women, conversations with them seem to be the gateway to purgatory. Talking ourselves to sleep. I wind up there, seamlessly and always have trouble escaping; Feeling no threat yet no true excitement, at least not enough to properly elevate me. We spend nights talking, learning, listening, hearing, doing, seeing, being. Handfuls of verbs, enough to defeat listless adjectives and physical descriptors.

They all wear blank faces, tell similar stories, and contrary to shallow beliefs, possess beautiful unique traits. Their curves differ enough to shape them into particular molds. No one quite the same, yet you know with a little strong-arming that they’ll fit just fine.

I love the black and white but tend to hate the gray.

Each one treated as an individual, with their own goals, problems, stories, yet they each fit into a persona of a woman. Figments churned together. Their moans match the angelic choirs. Soon after the moans, I’m met by firestorms and vitriolic charred fragments of what was once hope. This is when their horns and tail begin to show.

That’s why I always run away after.